


Mugwhump's Obligatory Whumptober 2020

by MugWhumps



Category: Broadchurch, Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Hamilton - Miranda, Rapunzel's Tangled Adventure (Cartoon), Tangled (2010)
Genre: Drabbles, May end up unfinished cause college is kicking my ass oof, This is unedited and a mess do not expect much from this seriously, Whumptober, Whumptober 2020, multifandom - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:47:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26766763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MugWhumps/pseuds/MugWhumps
Summary: Having never done a Whumptober in my life despite literally all of my content being whump, I decided to finally jump in with a series of drabbles for each prompt spanning various fandoms. I am using this as a writing exercise and not editing beyond obvious grammar and spelling mistakes, so do not expect a masterpiece. This is just a quick fix of whumperflies for all!
Comments: 16
Kudos: 18





	1. Let's Hang Out Sometime

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I currently have two stories going. And yes, I am busier than I have ever been in my entire life (starting a club, taking 16 credits, running every day, doing art commissions, job hunting...). Despite this, something in my brain somehow decided it would be a good idea to do Whumptober this year. As mentioned in the summary, I am treating this as a writing exercise with minimal editing and revising, so I request that people do not comment with criticism as it simply will not be helpful to me like it is on my other stories. This is just for fun, just a way to get into the spookiest of seasons and get some whumperflies going :)

_CRACK._

This time when the whip hit, Lafayette could barely muster a hoarse croak at the pain. His limp, bloody body spun and swayed from the chains it hung from, and for the umpteenth time he wondered numbly how he was still hanging onto consciousness.

“What, no more singing for us?” A nasally British voice sneered from somewhere out of his line of sight. Lafayette responded by hacking blood onto the cobbled floor, watching detachedly as it further reddened the stone beneath him. Someone jeered at him and his back arched as another whip was snapped against the small of it. His tortured muscles seized at the abuse, cramping simultaneously as if they had all collectively agreed to just give up. Lafayette finally jerked his head up at the white-hot pain of it, hissing through his teeth and scrabbling at the chains with sweat-slicked hands until he was able to catch them in a death’s grip and hold onto them with white knuckles until the cramps faded. 

“It’s almost like you _want_ to be whipped like a dog,” one of the British soldiers said cruelly. A hand grabbed at his chin and Lafayette flinched back as though electrocuted. He didn’t get far though, not while he was dangling uselessly from the ceiling like this, and the hand simply chased him and wrenched his face forward again. He squeezed the chains until they cut into his hands. “Look at me, boy.” A sharp, angled face blurred its way into his field of vision, and Lafayette did not look at it so much as he tried to burn a hole through it with his eyes. At least, he hoped it came across like that. He probably just looked like a swollen corpse squinting blearily at the soldier before him. “Are you going to give us the information we need and actually _cooperate_ for once? Or shall we continue on until you’ve been flayed down to the bone?”

“Please, by all means,” Lafayette rasped, and _par tous les saints du ciel,_ did that shred his already ruined throat. “Continue. Do not stop on my account.” He broke down into violent coughs that shook his whole body and tore at his throat, but he was proud enough of managing to keep enough composure to get out at least those few words when all he really wanted to do was vomit, curl into a ball, and cry until he fell into blissful sleep. He was even more proud when the British soldier evidently understood enough of his quip through his thick accent and ragged voice to be offended. That rat-like face purpled indignantly, and a white gloved hand cracked across Lafayette’s cheekbone. He was too exhausted to even try and act unaffected, letting his head snap back and then drop to his chest like a ragdoll as he continued his coughing fit. 

_“French scum,”_ the older man snarled, and Lafayette’s stomach rolled as he felt someone crank the pulley until the chains were dragging him back up in the air once more. His shoulders screamed in protest, the sharp pain enough to sting at his eyes. He sank his teeth into his bottom lip and hoped no one noticed his shaking hands. 

“Oh, he knows he did it now.” Of course, he couldn’t have even a single stroke of luck here. The ensuing laughter only solidified the leaden weight in his stomach, and the old dread he had become so accustomed to dripped down his spine like ice water. He wanted to take his words back and beg for forgiveness, to promise them he would help them, that he’d tell them anything if they just let him down. But then he thought of his friends, of that young country so bright and full of hope. He thought of his General, of the promise he had made him to always serve by his side. _Non._ He had made his bed. 

“Let’s see if we can persuade our little Frenchman to get his voice back in the next hour.”

Now he could only lie in it.

_CRACK._


	2. In The Hands Of The Enemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A darker take on the Tangled Series season 2 episode "Beyond the Walls of Corona", where instead of forcing Eugene to marry Stalyan The Baron decides to take his revenge the good ol' fashioned way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this is a day late. Don't worry, it won't become a habit. This one is a bit longer than the first, and is a story idea I'm actually interested in exploring further. Let me know if you are interested in a possible story continuing this drabble!

Eugene had woken up in many,  _ many  _ uncomfortable situations. It was just unavoidable at this point, especially given his illustrious history as most wanted thief, upgraded to the boyfriend of the most wanted princess. So he was less panicked and more pissed off when he groggily resubmerged to wakefulness on a hard stone floor with a crick in his back and a headache that easily achieved a spot on his top-ten list of concussions (which, come to think of it, was pretty sad that he felt the need to make a list). 

“ _ Muggh,”  _ he said, which was probably for the best since what he really wanted to say was a long string of violent swears. Fortunately, his head was throbbing too hard to make any noise except incoherent grumbles. For a few moments, Eugene just laid there with his eyes screwed shut, desperately wishing for the pounding in his skull to ease up. When lying still didn’t do anything to help his headache, Eugene finally forced himself up to a seated position with a ragged groan. Blinking slowly, he tried to take stock of where he was without turning his head to look too much. It was damp, that he could tell already by his soaked clothes. That was the problem with dungeons these days, they were always so  _ damp. _ It was like every kingdom in the world got together to plan out a theme for their dungeons, and somehow landed on mossy and swampy. He wrinkled his nose. Maybe he could talk to the King about that.

Outside of the unpleasant sliminess of the cobbled walls and floor, there really wasn’t much to see in his cell. There was a single torch sputtering in a sconce on the wall that seemed to be on its last legs, a giant, metal door that probably weighed more than he did, and a few rusted chains hanging along the walls and rooted to the floor. Eugene tried to twist his head back to see how he was chained up, only to be stopped immediately by a tugging at his neck. His annoyance suddenly wavered, leaving his gut twisting uneasily. He hadn’t realized it until now, not with his body aching as much as it was, but the reason he couldn’t turn his head all the way around was because of a giant iron collar clamped around his throat, securing him to the wall behind him. 

“Fuck,” he hissed, tugging experimentally again at his hands and the thick collar chained to his neck. Nothing was achieved but making his wrists and neck burn from the metal digging into them. “ _ Fuck. _ Really? No, really,” he babbled to himself, because being loud and indignant was better than the alternative of succumbing to the ice starting to claw its way up his spine. “What freak thought this was a good idea? Just does  _ not _ fit the whole charming-rogue schtick I’ve got going on, not at all—

“I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you, Rider.” That voice made the hair on the back of Eugene’s neck stand on end. He whipped around from where he had been craned awkwardly, trying to see where the locks on his bindings were.  _ Please, please,  _ please _ don’t actually let it be— _

“Ah. Baron.” Eugene swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “Hullo.”

_ Goddamnit. _

“I’m surprised you don’t look happier to see me, Rider,” the Baron rumbled, eyes glittering dangerously. “After all, I was almost your father in law.”

The Baron hadn’t changed one bit since Eugene last saw him all those years ago. Still grimy, still looked as though every expression had been chiseled out of stone, still loomed large enough that his head almost scraped the ceiling. The man grinned, and Eugene winced. Still looked like a shark trying to look friendly when he smiled. Maybe that was intentional this time, though; that angry glint in his eyes hadn’t gone away.

“Yes, well,” Eugene coughed awkwardly. “That was a  _ long _ time ago, really, and  _ I  _ think it would be best if we all just let bygones be bygones... don’t you?”

“No.” The grin was starting to morph into a grimace, the way a dog bared its teeth before attacking. The Baron took a step forward. “No, I don’t.”

“Ah.” Eugene shuffled closer to the wall and hoped it didn’t look as pathetic as it felt. “That’s a damn shame.”

“You know, Rider, at first I thought I should make you follow through with your promise.” The Baron stopped about an inch from where Eugene sat, choosing to lean over him menacingly, the way he always had when Eugene didn’t get a job done. He hated it. “But then I realized, how could a slimy, treacherous little backstabber like yourself possibly be worthy of my precious Stalyan? Especially after you broke her heart.” 

“Actually, I feel like it was a more mutual breaking of hearts, in the end. Long time coming, had to go our separate ways, nothing to be done, really—” Eugene clamped his mouth shut again when the Baron glared at him. “Right. Listening. Listening is good.”  _ Besides, _ he thought bitterly,  _ I doubt Stalyan even has a heart to break. _

“Why would I allow you a second chance into my family, when instead, I could just take my revenge?” The Baron leaned down to snap out a large, meaty fist and seize the collar, wrenching Eugene up until their faces were almost touching. Eugene choked as the metal synched off his windpipe, trying at first to jerk back, only for his head to pound in protest. He gritted his teeth past hacking coughs as he forced himself to meet the Baron’s eyes defiantly. “I am going to kill you, don’t doubt that for a second,” the man growled, foul breath only making Eugene choke harder. “But first, we’re going to have some fun.” Something gleamed out of the corner of Eugene’s eye, and his lungs seized up in his chest at the sight of a long, jagged blade in the Baron’s hand. The Baron brought the dagger up by his face, watched him pale slightly, and chuckled. Flashes of that day in the tower bubbled up to the forefront of his brain, the sensation of metal tearing through flesh, of dying, and his breathing shuddered back to life again, fast and shallow. “By the time I’m done with you, Rider, you’re gonna wish you were dead.” The blade plunged into his shoulder, and Eugene screamed.


	3. My Way Or The Highway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taking a bunch of pissed off demons ready to snap at the first creature they saw and cramming them all in the narrow hallways of Hell where they were bound to bump into each other never ended good for anyone. Crowley knew this all too well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's late again?? ...Me. It's me. At this point you all know the drill, I may be a few days late sometimes, but I'll always get the chapters up. I'm taking 16 credit hours, founding a club, running 6 days a week, and job hunting while doing this. Sometimes I'll be late. Sue me. 
> 
> (...Please don't sue me, college loans are kicking my ass!)

There were many things Crowley hated about Hell; too many to count, really. It was dark and damp, smelly and filthy, not to mention how the plumbing was perpetually in need of fixing. One thing he hated more than the rest, though, was the claustrophobia. The poorly lit, narrow hallways were bad enough on their own, but the thousands of demons flooding through the tunnels only made things worse. It was impossible to get from Point A to Point B without bumping into a few fellows, stepping on some toes both figuratively and literally. Even in his snake form Crowley had a Heaven of a time trying not to brush up against other demons, and at this point in his life he had given up on trying to slither past unnoticed after finding out the hard way that a snake’s body wasn’t quite up to snuff when fighting other demons. So usually he tried to solve this problem by avoiding Hell whenever possible and charming his way out of any sticky situations when he inevitably rubbed a demon the wrong way. His sharp tongue, however, wasn’t always able to get him out of trouble when said demon was particularly aggressive and bone-headed—like the one he was dealing with at the moment.

_ “Gnck.” _ Crowley grunted as a heavy, scaled hand shoved him to his knees, regretting how slender he had made his corporeal form when his knobbly knees slammed against the rough concrete. He grimaced at the sensation, silently blessing when the fabric of his expensive pants ripped and allowed tiny pebbles to embed themselves in his knees. 

“You got a problem, snake?” The unknown demon roared, and Crowley was grateful he couldn’t see him rolling his eyes behind his sunglasses. 

“Clearly someone does,” he drawled pointedly. If Aziraphale were here he surely would have stopped him from being so utterly stupid, but unfortunately for Crowley the angel was back in his bookshop, leaving the snake demon with absolutely no restraint or survival instinct. As the massive crocodile-esque demon who he had accidentally bumped into kicked him face-first into the ground, Crowley could almost see Aziraphale’s disappointed expression in front of him. He hissed as his glasses broke on impact, the brief wave of panic stifling him. He  _ needed _ those, bless it. Now his only armor was cracked on the concrete and it was all his fault. Even worse, several other demons were starting to crowd around to watch the fight ensue—that is, if Crowley being beat into the ground without resisting even constituted a fight. At this point, he was resigned to his fate; he had never been all that good at fighting, preferring to wriggle his way out with some sort of trickery or just up and run before the conflict escalated to that point. He was no doubt about to get discorporated, but he wasn’t going to go about making it worse than it was already bound to be. At his point he could only grit his teeth and hope it ended quickly. 

“Shut the fuck up, Crawly,” the meathead above him was hissing as he ground a boot into the side of Crowley’s face, and the usual wave of annoyance at every  _ fucking _ demon in Hell not being able to pronounce his name properly was almost drowned out by a hot, stabbing pain in his side as some other demon kicked him from behind with clawed feet.

“Yeah,” the newcomer sneered. “ _ Shut up, Crawly.” _ The demons gathered around laughed as though this was the peak of humor.  _ Insufferable idiots.  _ Crowley closed his eyes as the fragments of his glasses were kicked away. More than their snake-like appearance, Crowley detested his eyes for how much of an open book they made him. Demons didn’t have expressive eyes, they weren’t supposed to have any  _ expressions _ or emotions in the first place. They just made him weak, and displayed that weakness in glowing neon lights with fifteen different arrows pointing straight at it to the rest of the world. So Crowley kept his eyes squeezed shut tight even as blow after blow began to litter his body, fracturing ribs and slashing at flesh until he was coughing blood, his corporeal form no doubt riddled with internal bleeding. He thrashed and occasionally tried to fight back out of sheer willpower, but every time several sets of arms would manhandle him back down onto his knees, and from there onto his side, curled around his wounds uselessly. 

It could have gone on for minutes or hours at this point; Crowley could never tell. Eventually he stopped moving, numb to the pain and frustration. He was never lucky enough to come back from a trip to Hell without a few new bruises at the very least, not like the other demons. Everyone knew him as the flashy bastard he was, and unlike humans, they hated him for it. Sometimes, Crowley wondered if it would be any worse if he just stopped coming down Below. 

The jeers and taunts were getting quieter, and dimly Crowley thought some of his attackers must have gotten bored and wandered off to do whatever miserable task they had that day. All that was left was the crocodile demon he had been unlucky enough to brush past. Shattered ribs pressed down harshly into his lungs as a heavy boot leaned into Crowley’s chest. He coughed weakly, choking as blood bubbled up from his mouth. Finally, he opened his eyes as he felt several claws line up around his throat and tighten in a deadly ring, watching as they blurred into reality, black and knife sharp and covered in grime. He grimaced and winced in disgust, groaning as the demon leaned all its weight onto his chest. His ears were ringing and his vision was swimming ominously already, and a small part of Crowley was grateful that his discorporation would be swift rather than him being left to fade away in a pool of his own blood. The last thing he saw was the other demon’s grin as he peered down at him, and in that grin Crowley realized that his eyes had betrayed his fear once again. 

“Stay out of my way next time, snake,” the other demon snarled, and Crowley felt a stabbing pain throughout his throat that he thought might have made him scream before everything faded to a blissful silence. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Out of all the David Tennant roles I've seen, Crowley is definitely my favorite character of his. Second favorite is Alec Hardy from Broadchurch, so expect him at some point too!


	4. Running Out Of Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alec almost dies during a call out, and Ellie is forced to confront how much he means to her just a little bit more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those of you who read my end notes won't be surprised at a Broadchurch chapter. Those of you who don't... read them!

Ellie Miller was exhausted. Almost half past eleven at night, and she was just now finishing up at the station’s latest call out, which was, frankly, a giant shitstorm. Some idiot teens had ended up lighting the Traders on fire while drunk off their asses, sending Becca Fisher’s entire livelihood crumbling to the ground before her eyes. Luckily (or unluckily; Ellie rather wanted to give those knobheads a piece of her mind) no one had gotten hurt, but the historic building was almost unsalvageable, teetering on its last legs and sure to come crumbling to the ground any second. Ellie’s job was done, at least; it was up to the firefighters to contain the impending collapse of the hotel. The hours she had spent rushing about through smoke-filled air, coughing her lungs out and trying to be in eight different places at once to make sure everyone got out alright and the teens were arrested, was done. Somehow streaked with soot across every inch of her body, Ellie was quite ready to take a long, hot shower and pass out in her bed for at least the next twelve hours. 

Of course, now was when someone had to ruin this night for her even further.

“D.S. Miller?” Ellie wavered on unsteady feet, hand already outstretched to open her car door. For half a second she debated just pretending she hadn’t heard the other officer and making a mad dash to start her car so she could relieve all the muscles in her body screaming at her for rest. But Ellie was nothing if not thorough and would rather keel over dead than be rude to anyone (with the exception, perhaps, of her knob of a boss Alec Hardy), and so in the end she braced herself with a sigh before turning around with a polite, practiced smile.

“Yes?” She chirped, but she could tell by the nervous expression on the lower officer’s face that the bags under her eyes and flyaways in her hair gave away her thinning patience anyway. 

“I’m so sorry ma’am, but there’s an issue,” the younger woman stuttered. Ellie ground her teeth together but swallowed her annoyance.  _ Just a little longer, then. This better be worth it. _

“Oh?” Ellie folded her hands together in what she hoped was a professional way. “And you’re sure D.I. Hardy can’t handle it?” Somehow the other officer cringed even harder at that.

“That, um, that is the problem, D.S. Miller. D.I. Hardy, that is.” Now Ellie could feel her smile slipping slightly, irritation boiling up in her. 

“Really?” Ellie sucked in a breath. “What does he want, then? Paperwork? A ride home? Someone to complain to? Because really, I am exhausted and filthy and really not in the mood—”

“No, no no no!” The young woman looked positively alarmed now, glancing behind her at the swaying building every few seconds. “Ma’am, that’s not—D.I. Hardy is still in the building!” Ellie froze, mouth still open to rattle off more messages to send along to Hardy, the words dying in her throat. The heat from the flames was fading, leaving a chill in her bones that ran deeper than just a physical sensation.

“Excuse me?” Ellie asked, voice coming out as a croak.  _ No. _ The other officer took a deep breath, seeming to sense the panic building in Ellie even as she shifted from foot to foot like she wanted to bolt.

“D.S. Miller, your partner is trapped in the building. The firefighters are working to get him out, but we just thought you should know—”

The rest of the woman’s words faded away.  _ No.  _ That stubborn bastard couldn’t be... Ellie chanced a glance at the Traders. It was swaying from side to side, pieces of drywall and roofing tile sliding down at intermittent rates, the walls and foundation creaking creaking audibly even from the parking lot. Almost the whole building was collapsed in on itself, the first floor almost entirely crushed. Her heart leapt into her throat, and she was running towards the yellow tape circling the building before she even registered her feet moving. 

_ God, no.  _ Not Alec. Please,  _ please _ , out of all the people who had been in the hotel tonight, out of those damned kids who had caused this whole mess, Alec couldn’t be the one casualty. He was a grumpy, insufferable pain in the arse—A pain in the arse who was self sacrificing to the point of idiocy, too soft for his own good, and ridiculously devoted to his daughter. Oh, God, his  _ daughter. _ What would she tell Daisy if— _ No. _ The word pounded in her ears with every step.  _ No, no, no, if I can just get to him in time, if I can just _ —

“—Miller! D.S. Miller!” A hand lurched out and seized Ellie’s arm, yanking her back when she was inches from the tape. Without thinking she spun around and slapped at the owner of the arm, tugging with all her might.

“ _ Let go of me! _ He’s in there, my partner’s in there! Let me  _ go, _ I have to—I have to—”

“Ellie,  _ Ellie! _ ” It was Jenkinson shouting at her, holding her back even as she clawed at her blindly. The police chief looked shocked, clearly not having expected this visceral of a reaction over Alec Hardy, of all people. But Ellie knew him better than anyone else in the department, knew him enough to know that he was the last person who deserved to die tonight, no matter what  _ idiocy _ he had concocted to get into this situation. “Calm down!” Ellie slowed her struggles, hopelessness starting to well up in her stomach. People only ever called her by her first name when terrible news was about to come, like when Hardy had to tell her that Joe had killed Danny. When he hugged her and comforted her and let her scream at him, all while looking at her with those sad eyes and open arms...

“But—” Ellie choked on the lump in her throat. “But—”

“Ellie, look at me.” Jenkinson put both hands on her shoulders, and only when she finally looked up at her police chief did Ellie realize there were tears on her face. “The firefighters are working on getting him out right now. He’s going to be just fine, as long as you—”

“No.” Ellie shook her head, slowly at first then rapidly. “No, y-you can’t  _ say  _ that. You don’t know that he’ll be f- _ fine, _ he might be d—M-Might be  _ de _ —” She couldn’t finish the words. “I-I have to go help,  _ please. _ You know he has a heart condition, any injuries—Any pressure on his chest—”

“I know, I know,” Jenkinson interrupted, mouth pressed in a thin line. “But you can’t do anything right now. All we can do is wait.”

_ Wait. _ Ellie always hated waiting, even when she was little and it was over unimportant things, like waiting for dessert. But Alec was the most important thing she’d wait for. Ever since Danny’s death and even more so since Joe’s arrest he had cemented himself into her life, for all his faults becoming an unmovable boulder in the face of everything else that changed so painfully around her. He was the one person who had gotten her through hell on earth. How could she manage if he left her, too? She  _ needed _ him. Ellie stared at the building slowly becoming rubble with glazed eyes, stomach rolling every time more rubble came down. It could have been Hardy under each falling piece for all she knew.  _ Please, _ Ellie thought, not knowing if she was begging to herself or praying for the first time in ages.  _ Please. _ Maybe she was begging the firefighters who were taking so goddamn long to get him out. When had this even happened? Why hadn’t anyone done anything?  _ Why hadn’t she been there? _

Later Ellie would find out that she had only waited three measly minutes for the firefighters to uncover Hardy. He’d had it worse; fifteen stuck under a mountain of rubble with a broken arm and twisted ankle, the remains of a ceiling crashed down onto his chest and shunting a broken rib into his lung. His pacemaker went off at some point as his punctured lung slowly sapped his air; Ellie didn’t want to know when, preferring to believe he’d been in blissful unconsciousness through it all instead of drowning in his own blood. Had they gotten him out even a few minutes later, the doctors said, he may have died. (Ellie didn’t want to think about that either.) Everything between the incident and the hospital was a blur, Ellie never even thinking about the fact that she had lied to the EMTs that she was his wife so she could ride along (and that Jenkinson hadn’t corrected her, but rather given her a knowing look instead). It all felt like a god-awful nightmare, one she only woke up from when, as she sat by Hardy’s bed with a bag of seedless grapes, a bony hand squeezed hers. 

“Alec?” Ellie was alert in an instant, hovering over her partner and friend as soon as he started to blink his eyes open sleepily from behind the oxygen mask. The brief annoyance on his face at being landed in the hospital again was a breath of fresh air, only trumped by the awkward half-smile he gave her.

“Hi, Miller,” he wheezed, probably about to say something obnoxious, but stopped when Ellie crossed a boundary she hadn’t crossed before in their friendship and hugged him. She felt him freeze in her arms, so painfully thin, and her heart constricted. He cleared his throat. “Miller—what—” He clearly was about to grumble, but Ellie shushed him.

“Shut up,” she muttered, squeezing her traitorous eyes shut and hoping Alec didn’t notice she was crying. “You—You don’t get to call me that, not after this. You almost died last night, you knob, the least you can do is call me by my real name.” For a moment, Ellie was worried he wouldn’t answer her. But after a thick swallow, he finally replied. 

“Okay.” His voice sounded rough, but that could have just been from the oxygen mask. “Okay, Mi—Ellie.” She almost felt him scrunch his nose up. “Ellie.  _ El-lie. _ El—”

“Oh, be quiet.” Ellie rolled her eyes at the recurrence of their first argument about her name, ignoring the way her heart fluttered just a bit at him finally saying her name. She didn’t stop hugging him, and he let her. At some point they fell asleep on the hospital bed, lumped together—but Ellie would deny that until her dying breath. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only character left in the trifecta of my favorite David Tennant characters is the Tenth Doctor. If I write anything on him, you can bet on two things: it will elaborate on Midnight and it will have Donna. Donna is superior to Rose, there, I said it.


	5. Where Do You Think You're Going?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lafayette tries (and fails) to escape from his imprisonment in Olmutz, Austria.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly don't know why more people don't write Laf whump about his time in prison?? It's perfect whump material??? If anyone doesn't know, historically Lafayette fled France during the French Revolution because the monarchists hated him for helping in America's revolution and the revolutionaries hated him for being a noble... So basically everyone wanted to kill him. Unfortunately he was captured and imprisoned in Austria... for being involved in the French Revolution. Obviously the revolutionaries didn't care to try and get him back, so Angelica Schuyler and her husband ended up hatching a plot to get him out. Unfortunately the escape didn't work, and he was recaptured, remaining there I believe for a few more years before actually being freed when Napoleon came into power. Poor, poor historical Lafayette :( (Forgive me for any historical details I missed, these are things I have not thoroughly researched as of yet.)

Lafayette’s stomach clenched with hunger as he pushed through the dense brush, stumbling on his tired feet for the fifth time in the last few minutes. He honestly had no idea how he was still going forward; it had been at least a couple days of traveling, at least 24 hours of which had been on foot after lightning cracking through the sky startled his horse into throwing him and galloping away into the distance. Every labored breath confirmed his suspicions that he had broken a rib in the fall, the bone creaking and pushing against his lung painfully. How he was still moving was a mystery to him. He didn’t remember the last time he had eaten, hadn’t stopped for a drink in hours, and even then the foul tasting river water had made him feel more ill than refreshed. But if not for Angelica and her husband, he would still be in that dark, cramped cell in Olmütz, waiting for the next round of interrogation. The eldest Schuyler sister’s bold plot was his only chance at freedom right now, and he didn’t want to fail her by quitting just because he was tired. Every time he heard horses draw near he just imagined that stern, unimpressed look Angelica commanded with ease and her voice scolding him for giving up, and he’d hasten his footsteps once more.

Still, there was only so much one man’s body could take. Lafayette’s body, for example, had begun to remind him of this every few seconds by providing a new ache in his body or a spasm of hunger. At one point he even thought he saw Washington, standing at the end of the choppy path with open arms, only to watch the hazy form disappear. At this rate the hallucinations could have been from any number of factors, whether they be exhaustion, dehydration, hunger, or disease. The harder he thought about it the more it depressed him, so with a curse he just kept going. That is, until there was yet another distant shout from behind him. 

_ “ _ _ Bleib in Bewegung. Er kann nicht weit weg sein; Er wird jetzt tot auf den Beinen sein.” _ Lafayette shuddered to a halt, feet knocking together clumsily. He squeezed his eyes shut, heart dropping into his stomach. 

_ “Merde,”  _ he breathed. It did not take much effort to let his body drop to the forest floor like it had been screaming at him to do for hours. Lafayette gritted his teeth as he rolled into the closest patch of foliage, hissing every time anything so much as grazed his ribs. His days fighting in the mud during the American Revolution returned to him instinctively as he flattened himself on his stomach amidst the leaves and branches, slowing his wheezing breaths and stilling as much as he could. The voices were drawing closer, and with them the sound of horses. 

_ “Oder tatsächlich tot,” _ one of the guards jeered, and the responding laughter made the hair on the back of Lafayette’s neck stand up. He couldn’t be recaptured, not after all this time trekking through the wilderness, not after everything Angelica had done for him.  _ Idiot, _ he thought furiously, pressing himself even flatter into the earth even as his rib throbbed in protest.  _ Idiot, idiot, idiot. _ The horses were even closer, now, likely in eyesight if he were to peek up over the brush. Lafayette silently prayed to all the saints he was named after for his luck to hold steady, for the guards to move along like they always had. But this time, the saints did not answer his prayers. Instead, there were the thumping sounds of several men dropping off their horses to root around through the underbrush. Lafayette bit the inside of his cheek so hard he drew blood.

“Come out, come out wherever you are Marquis,” one of the men drawled. Swords sliced through the branches at random, and the hysterical part of Lafayette thought that maybe he might be decapitated by one of the swinging blades and that would be the end of it. “We know you’re here.” Lafayette bit down even harder, using the pain to ground himself and keep his breathing even. One pair of footsteps in particular was drawing closer, heavy boots squelching in the mud as their owner searched for him.  _ S'il te plaît, mon Dieu,  _ he prayed fervently,  _ laisse-les avancer... Ne me laisse pas trouver, pas après tout ça... _ The retreat of the guard was agonizing in its slowness, but eventually amid the frantic beating of his heart Lafayette heard them begin to wander away. The Frenchman waited one second, then two, counting all the way up to ten with bated breath. Only after that, with the footsteps still retreating, did he allow himself to breathe a shaky sigh of relief, muscles uncoiling.  _ Thank you God, _ he mouthed silently to himself in the dirt, almost dizzy from adrenaline. That would have been the end of it; he either would have died of starvation or dehydration in the middle of the forest after that or, by some miracle, made it to the border and escaped back to his Adrienne and his children like Angelica and her husband had planned. Lafayette might have truly tasted freedom, had one of the guards not decided to shoot into the brush.

_ CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.  _ Lafayette almost jumped out of his skin when the shots started, bullets whizzing through the trees all around him. His throat closed up, he flattened himself again, tried to roll to the side, but it was too late. It only took one bullet to aim true for the guards to realize he was there, and as a shot embedded itself in his left shoulder he couldn’t help but let out a cry of pain.

_ “Wir haben ihn!” _ Lafayette tried to scramble back as the men ran towards him, but he was too slow. Someone grabbed him by his injured shoulder and he gasped, the world whiting out in agony as the guard yanked him up to his knees. 

_ “Schöne Grüße,  _ Marquis.” His assailant’s face blurred back into view as the man grabbed him by the hair, jerking his chin up until they were face to face. The oily smile the guard was sporting made Lafayette’s stomach churn. “Now, where do you think you’re going?”

“Preferably, away from you,” Lafayette slurred between panting breaths. Someone seized his hands and wrenched them behind his back to bind them together, yanking on his wounded shoulder. Lafayette gritted his teeth, flinching at the pulsing pain radiating from his wound.  _ “Agh—” _

“Only a fool would try to escape in the wilderness, Marquis,” the man still forcing him on his knees by his shoulder sneered. “You should be thanking us; you would have died of starvation had we not found you.”

“And that—that is better than the alternative?” Lafayette panted. He huffed out a laugh, the familiar hollow apathy returning to his mind. “I daresay I would have been an even greater fool not to try.” The guard quirked an eyebrow.

“Perhaps.” A thumb dug into the bullet hole cruelly, pushing at the metal still lodged in his shoulder, and Lafayette threw his head back in agony as he somehow wrestled his scream down into a strangled moan. “You certainly will regret this disobedience, I can assure you of that.” The ugly smile was back on the man’s face, and Lafayette shuddered as he twisted his thumb in the wound one last time for good measure before drawing away. So close. He had been so close to not seeing that god-awful smile again, and now it was gone. He was so, so  _ tired. _ He just wanted Adrienne. Needed to bask in her warmth and life, feel her tiny hand holding his own steady. It had been so long... How many more years would it be now until he saw her again?  _ If, _ the dark corners of his mind spoke.  _ If you ever see her again. If they do not keep you in the dark for the rest of your life, if they do not decide to kill you. _ Lafayette swallowed as the man tying his hands tightened the rope one last time, that knot feeling like a death sentence. Already he could feel the cold of his cell, felt the oppressive darkness weighing on his eyes. 

_ “Knock ihn aus,” _ the man said, standing up and releasing his hold on Lafayette’s hair. Lafayette’s breath quickened.  _ No, no no no! _ He needed that sunlight, even the tiny shafts of it shining through the trees, needed just a few more seconds to hold onto it before he was thrown back into that cell.  _ Please, just a few more seconds, _ he thought frantically as he flung his head back to drink in the last of the beautiful, bright sun, staring into it even as spots gathered in his vision. He wasn’t ready to leave this behind. The fresh air, the warmth that reminded him of his wife. He started to struggle against the arms holding him, ignoring the throbbing in his shoulder and chest, just fighting for one more moment of sunlight. For a tiny second, Lafayette basked in its glow, gulping in one last breath of air that was not stale and cold. It felt like perfection. It felt like freedom.

But every perfect moment ends, and this one was no exception. The butt end of a gun came down on the back of his skull, and the sun was absorbed by darkness. Hours later when he would awaken chained in that claustrophobic cell, barely able to see even a foot in front of him, Lafayette would feel something inside of him break. He had been so close.  _ So fucking close. _ Back in the prison, waiting once more for more abuse to be laid upon his weak body, Lafayette would cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably the first time I felt genuinely sad at the end of writing a fic, and that's saying something. Probably because something similar to this actually happened. Gotta get some fluff in at some point to make myself feel better... but not quite yet >:)


	6. Please

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Austrian government is convinced Lafayette knows information about the French Revolution, it's just a matter of getting it from him by any means necessary. Unfortunately for Lafayette, he has nothing to give.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some more exploration of Lafayette's imprisonment. Be warned, this is probably my darkest/most graphic one yet, the whumpiest of whump. Next chapter will be more hurt-comfort and have some fluff to make up for it :)

_ “Je n-ne sais pas! Je te l-l'ai... dit tant de fois, je ne sais pas—” _

_ CRACK. _ Lafayette was cut off by his own scream as the thumbscrews snapped his already splintering bones, cracking his fingernails apart cruelly.

“English, Marquis,” the Austrian guard drawled from behind him. “If you do not have the decency to speak our language, you will at least speak this common one.” The man leaned his weight onto the devices trapping Lafayette’s hands against the armrests of the splintered wooden chair and the smaller man curled in on himself as burning hot pain pulsed out from his fingers through his whole body. 

_ “Guh—” _ Lafayette’s head swam dangerously as blood seeped out from underneath the metal thumbscrews, eyes stinging with tears. He scrambled to collect his frenzied thoughts, barely able to string together any more words than  _ hurts, stop,  _ and a long list of increasingly offensive swears. The screws started to turn again, hastening him into a clumsy response. “I-I-I do not know any—anything, I-I swear it,” he panted, pulling at his hands desperately. “I’ve t-told you so many…  _ so many times,  _ p-please.”

“Wrong answer.” The guard resumed the torture, and the world went white as his other two nails were cracked apart, the shards pushed into the bleeding skin underneath. Lafayette gagged as skin and bone gave way to the crushing pressure, writhing where he sat. He had lost count of the hours this interrogation session had lasted long ago, only barely hanging onto consciousness. Already the guard torturing him had needed to wake him up with cold water splashed over his head multiple times. Had he known anything of what was being asked of him, Lafayette thought he would have cracked already. But that was the problem—contrary to the Austrian government’s belief, Lafayette was not much favored by the French 

_Révolutionnaires_ _._ While the King and Queen were busy hating him for his participation in overthrowing a monarchy all those years ago in America, the Jacobins despised him for his noble title. Somehow he was both too radical and not radical enough, distrusted by both sides and forced to flee France after Adrienne got wind of a plot to have him executed. Now, after years of being tortured for information he didn’t have, Lafayette wished with all his heart that he hadn’t chosen Austria as the place to flee to.

“Do not forget, you can make this all stop with just a tiny piece of information, Marquis.” The guard’s words drifted in and out of Lafayette’s ears, muffled by the haze of agony radiating from his fingers. “Anything will do. We know you were involved in the Revolution... We know you know something.”

“I do not, I-I swear,” Lafayette started babbling, only to heave when the man suddenly rounded on him from behind the chair and punched him in the gut. He crumpled in the chair, gasping, as a large hand yanked him forward by his ragged shirt.

“ _ Yes, you do,” _ the guard hissed furiously. When Lafayette looked up he saw fire in the man’s eyes, and a shudder of fear coursed through his body. “I do not know why you keep  _ lying,  _ but for every last untruth that comes out of your mouth you will bleed.” Lafayette cried out as the guard began twisting the thumbscrews again, only to stop suddenly, an icy sadistic glint entering his eyes.  _ What now? _ Lafayette could pinpoint the exact moment his heart rate spiked up, knowing in his bones that any change in this place meant something bad was about to happen. To his horror, he was proven right when the guard relaxed only to draw a knife from his belt. Before Lafayette could so much as blink the blade was sunk deep in his side, and red exploded across his vision as he screamed.

“You will not cooperate with these—” the guard said, slamming a hand down onto one of the thumbscrews and forcing tears out of Lafayette’s eyes. “—Fine. Then perhaps a change of pace will jog your memory, hmm?” The knife dug somehow deeper,  _ twisted, _ and Lafayette whimpered. 

“You can’t,” he coughed, shaking his head weakly. He knew the guard would not listen, would continue until he was on death’s door, but goddamnit he—he  _ couldn’t. _ Couldn’t keep riding out the pain, couldn’t keep writhing and screaming as his sanity slowly fractured. He was a coward, and he had just reached his limit. “P-P-Please, it h-has been  _ hours, _ please, n-no more. I—I have told you e-everything I can.” His breath hitched as another wave of agony pulsed out from his fingers. His panic only increased when he realized the guard wasn’t going to remove the thumbscrews, was going to let his shattered fingers remain in that crushing grip for as long as he was in this room. The guard was looking down at him now with a hungry sort of amusement in his eyes, the kind that twisted men got when they watched a poor soul break. “J-Just—stop,  _ please.” _

“Stop?” The guard ripped the blade out from Lafayette’s side and he cried out, the blood drained from his face as he slumped back into the chair, shaking. “Stop this?” He sounded mocking as he walked back behind Lafayette, towards the wall holding the only torch sconce in the cell. Lafayette bit his lip, momentarily forgetting how to speak as the wounds in his fingers and side sang with pain. 

“Please,” he rasped, squeezing his eyes shut as sweat dripped down his brow. For a split second, Lafayette thought his tormentor was going to listen to him. There was quiet, not an absence of pain but a brief respite from new wounds being inflicted. For a moment, Lafayette’s body relaxed. Then the man came back around from where the torch was, and the knife in his hands was glowing white hot like a brand.

Lafayette’s lungs ceased to function. Then, they went into overdrive as he started to hyperventilate.

_ “N-N-Non,” _ he whispered, shaking his head rapidly, pupils blown wide in fear.  _ “N-Non, s'il vous plaît—!” _

“You asked me to stop what I was doing, correct?” The guard’s nasty smile burned itself into Lafayette’s brain, cruel and sadistic and the subject of nightmares. The man advanced, loomed over him, pushed his head into the back of the chair and held it there as he struggled, bringing the molten blade up to his cheek. “We will do something else, then. At least…” The flat side of the knife was pressed to his skin and Lafayette screamed as it burned the flesh of his cheek. “...Until you decide otherwise.” Heat washed up his face and neck while the heated metal burned his skin, finally dragging a wretched sob from his lips before he could stop it.

_ “Arrêtez! S’il vous plaît, S-S’IL VOUS P-PLAÎT!”  _ The knife was dragging along his cheek, down his jaw, finally coming to rest by his collarbone. There was already too much pain lighting his nerves on fire, racing through his body. He couldn’t take any more, he just couldn’t—

The white-hot knife sank into the space above his collarbone, burning every inch of flesh it passed through, and suddenly Lafayette couldn’t think anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a long-form canon-divergence Lafayette fic that I'm 47 pages into that is more on this level of darkness and EXTREMELY whump heavy, but haven't posted it because I don't know how many people would like it. If you enjoyed this chapter definitely let me know in the comments if you would like me to post it!


	7. Important Author's Notice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Important Author's Notice; I know, I hate it when authors do this instead of uploading a chapter too, but this was a hard decision and one that needs to be addressed.

**!!IMPORTANT AUTHOR'S NOTICE!!**

Hi. I know, I know; updating with an author's note instead of a chapter feels like a betrayal and I also hate it. But this is extremely important. I'm not gonna beat around the bush: I am stopping uploading fanfics for the foreseeable future. This was a decision I wrestled with for at least a month, if not longer, and it hurt to make. Fanfiction is a huge part of my life, but the truth is that uploading chapters was more stressful than fun at the end of the day. I ended up holding myself back in writing, worrying that it wouldn't be good enough to post. Then there is my life outside of fandoms. Currently I am taking 16 credits of college classes, prepping for a dual major with voice lessons, working a part time job, doing art commissions, running daily, and leading a club. And that is too fucking much. This was the easiest way for me to take something off my plate. I love you all dearly and appreciate every single comment and kudos I have ever gotten. You should know that if I've seen your comment, it's made me so goddamn happy. It makes me warm and fuzzy inside the rest of the day. I know it hurts to see an author you like stop posting, but the worse thing than that is for them to disappear without notice or explanation. I did not want to do that to you all. I will continue to write in my private life, with this caveat: I will not post stories as I work on them, but rather post themÂ **when they are complete.** Â This is something other writers have done that I think would be better for me so I can write in my (very little) free time, for fun, without a time crunch, and still eventually post things. This means it will likely be awhile til my next post. Which brings me to my next point: what will happen to my current stories? Well, I am going to take them down until they are finished, BUT if anyone wants to reread them or have them for themselves I will gladly communicate with you to find a way to send you the Google docs. This way you can still have them. I will leave these up for a week to give people a chance to respond if they want to.Â 

Again, thank you all so much. You are amazing, and fandoms are amazing. And the second I finish a story, you will be seeing it. I love you all, have a wonderful day.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I too have succumbed to Hamilton. And by Hamilton, I basically just mean Daveed Diggs. I would be writing Andre Layton (Snowpiercer) and Collin (Blindspotting) fanfic too, but those fandoms are so tiny it physically hurts how little there is to work with. So I am indulging myself with some Lafayette whump, because there is not nearly enough Lafayette appreciation in this fandom at all.


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